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| Bharati Varrier |
The room next to my room
is a wee too perfect.
Bed is made,
pillows fluffed
to good shape,
everything well in place.
No clothes are in disarray
nor books lolling open
or closed,
no bags half unpacked
or packed
in happy repose.
Wardrobes are a surprise,
all in perfect order,
tidy too,
curtains are quite drawn,
no laundry overdue.
The gadgets are amiss
and their crazy complexity
of cords –
a network on their own,
a tangled web of sorts.
The room next to my room
is flawless,
or almost,
like a nest
of small chirruping birds
that grew their wings and left.
©
Stitching feathers is an art that mothers so carefully, indulge. So meticulously woven. And as the wings gets strength, they fly away - a MUHOORTHAM in anticipation for the mothers dream decorated in the rooms looks empty. WoW woW 😮😳 Wow - apt poem for today. Regards,
ReplyDeleteThank you so very much!
DeleteReading this gave a feeling of void of sorts. That emotional thing.
ReplyDelete👏
Nice to know that you could connect with the poem.
DeleteAwwww.....heart wrenching! My birds have flown away! Can relate to this. Beautifully expressed, Sujatha.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much, Tara!
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